The Forbidden Discovery
by sherlocked4eva
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade finally meet. Neither could have anticipated what they would discover together. Mystrade slash fic, rated M for later content
1. Chapter 1

_Thank you for taking the time to read my first Mystrade slash fiction, a second Sherlock story I am writing alongside "Only the Lonely". This story is likely to contain some slash-inspired adult content as it progresses, so please do not read if you think you may be offended._

_As always, please be kind enough to review my work as it means so much to get responses from others. I love to hear what other fanfic enthusiasts have to say, so please share you opinions._

_I really hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

Lestrade sprang into action the moment the alert had come through. It was not often that an incident made his heart run cold with dread.

_Hostage situation at 221b Baker Street. Persons involved unconfirmed, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson believed to be in residence._

"Emergency situation, everyone on full alert!" Lestrade shouted as he stormed through the office. A few officers looked up vaguely, wondering what the problem was.

"Donovan, Baker Street, now!" He continued, pointing at Sergeant Donovan who was talking on the phone at her desk. She sighed irritably and ended the call, wondering what mess Sherlock had got himself involved in.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting bolt upright in his armchair, watching the young, nervous man opposite him with a steely unblinking gaze. If it were not for the gun in the man's hand, aimed directly at Sherlock's head, he would have laughed him out of the apartment. The man's hands were shaking nervously and he continually wiped his damp brow with his sleeve. His eyes darted haphazardly around the apartment, focusing on the door, the window, the entrance to the bedrooms, as if expecting someone to leap out at any moment and grab him. Even his posture was nervous and lacking in confidence, his shoulder slumped and his head ducked, as if waiting for something to drop down from the ceiling. He shifted continuously in his seat, unable to remain static for more than a few seconds. It was exhausting to watch him.

Sherlock surveyed him with interest, the gun more something to be wary of rather than seriously frightened. Most likely this poor kid had been hired by someone else, someone who was intelligent enough to get another person to do their dirty work for them, but stupid enough to choose someone just a little too desperate. So what would induce this scared, cowardly lad into committing a crime which would only end in prison? Well, money was the obvious answer, but with the risk so high, what sum of money could possibly be worth it?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and considered the man again.

_Shaking hands...sweating...thin frame and gaunt face, evidently underweight...shabby clothes...fingernails dirty, probably has not washed properly for a few days...obviously driven by desperation..._

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, this was easy. Drink, or more likely, drugs, was at the bottom of this. The need for them would motivate any junkie to risk everything for cash.

"What you nodding about?" The boy asked angrily, strengthening his grip on the gun.

Sherlock smiled calmly.

"You know that the chances of you getting away with this are practically zero," he said with bemused sympathy for this deluded fool.

"Won't," the boy replied insolently, sounding like a bad-tempered teenager.

"And did that even make sense?" Sherlock laughed, his amusement ending abruptly when he saw a most welcome sight behind the boy's closely shaven head. A figure, indistinguishable at present, was slowly creeping noisily up the stairs outside the apartment, their figure just visible through the open door that the boy had forgotten to close. Sherlock was unsure who this was but it could only mean one thing; help was surely here and this tiresome incident was nearly at an end. Anybody who was arriving to take over as hostage-taker from this lad would not bother to creep and disguise their presence.

"Why do you think he asked me, eh?" The boy asked, a droplet sweat running slowly down from his temple. "It's cos he trusts me, right? It's cos he knows I'm gonna pull this right off, and no one can stop me."

"Oh of course," said Sherlock sincerely, forcing himself to focus on the boy rather than the figure who was silently moving into through the door. Sherlock could now see that the figure was a man, short and stocky, with dark hair and a muscular, powerful build. He had briefly caught Sherlock's eye and in an instant, sent him a very clear message in facial expression.

_Don't look at me, focus on the boy, I'll have this under control in a matter of seconds._

"He told me not to kill you," the boy said, the gun beginning to shake violently in his hands, "but I swear I will do it if you push me."

With a swift dive and a powerful pounce, the mysterious rescuer suddenly dived at the boy from a distance of around six feet, his right hand effortless swiping the gun out of the shaky grip and his left arm locking around his neck.

"That's enough now, son," he growled in a low, menacing voice, "you're in quite enough trouble as it is."

The boy waved his arms about wildly and kicked out his legs, wriggling desperately to try and escape the man's grip. But his scrawny under-nourished body was no match for the stocky figure that was now pinning him to the ground. His struggle quickly subsided as he realised he was beaten and he lay still, whimpering incomprehensibly into the carpet.

Sherlock rose from the chair and rolled up his shirt sleeves; the flat suddenly felt very hot. He looked down at the pathetic figure on the floor partly in interest and partly in sympathy.

"Foolish kid," he murmured. Sherlock turned his attention from the boy and addressed the man who was now wrenching his victim's arms behind his back, ignoring the squeals of pain, and forcing his hands into cuffs.

"Looks like I owe you some thanks," Sherlock said, "are you one of Lestrade's men?"

"No, he's one of mine," came a soft voice from the doorway.

Sherlock looked up just as Mycroft entered the flat. He was elegantly attired as always, his black three piece suit and pale blue shirt pressed to perfection, a subtlety striped tie finishing the look. Mycroft walked across the room and stared with ill-disguised distaste at the now silent boy curled up on the floor. He tapped the end of his umbrella menacingly close to the boy's head, his lips curling upwards into a sarcastic sneer.

"Dear me sherlock," he said mockingly, "you really do attract a poor class of kidnapper. Where did this one come from? Drop in on his way to college did he?"

"How did you know about this, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked irritably.

Mycroft shrugged lazily and continued to smile at Sherlock in the condescending way that he knew annoyed his little brother so much.

"One of my assistants got a tip-off from the police, thought I'd come along and save them the bother. Seemed sensible to combine a little work with visiting my dear brother."

"Well I can honestly say it wasn't worth the effort," Sherlock said pointedly, "but I suppose the exercise always does you good." His eyes dropped to Mycroft's stomach area and narrowed his eyes critically.

Mycroft's amused face darkened.

"Trust me, Sherlock, if I'd known what a pathetic specimen we would be scooping up, I really would not have bothered."

Mycroft and Sherlock were so focused on sniping at each other that neither heard the soft tread of careful footsteps creeping quietly up the stairs.

Lestrade, Donovan, and a dozen armed officers were silently making their way towards the door of Sherlock's flat, ready to bring the siege to an end. Lestrade had no information regarding to what to expect, so had taken no chances. With agonisingly slow movement, he inched his head around the corner so he could see what was in front on him.

He could see Sherlock, his back to the window and his face looking towards the wall. He was partially obscured by another man, presumably the hostage taker, who was silhouetted in the doorway. Lestrade made a quick assessment of the man in order to determine the level of risk.

Tall, slim build, no obvious signs of explosives or bombs, something long in his hand but it did not look like a weapon.

The man turned slightly to the side and Lestrade was able to see the item. An umbrella. Not dangerous. Therefore this man was not armed.

Lestrade was not one to ponder a situation for too long; he made a snap decision and acted.

"Go!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, tearing forward to reach the door, the full force of his men behind him. With his full strength he grabbed the man roughly by the shoulders, slamming him forcefully into the door frame and his other officers poured into the flat, their guns poised at different angles in order to ensure the entire room was covered.

"That's what you get for pulling stunts in my area, you bastard," Lestrade snarled into the back of the man's head yanking his arm more forcefully than necessary up his back. "Are you ok Sherlock? We got here as quick as we could."

Lestrade turned his head to check on Sherlock and was surprised to see him smiling in amusement, his eyes darting playfully between the man and Lestrade.

"What's so funny?" Lestrade asked, "this one been amusing you or something?".

He gave the man a sharp kick in the back of his shin. The man's knee buckled slightly and he grunted in pain. Lestrade grinned in satisfaction.

"Looks like I owe you thanks, Lestrade," Sherlock said, the smile still hovering on his face, "trust me, there are not many men you will meet who are as dangerous as this one."

"Sherlock, stop" The man said suddenly, his voice low and threatening.

Lestrade was confused. He looked between the two men.

"What's going on?" He asked. Sergeant Donovan was starting to look slightly lost as well, her forehead screwed up in concentration as she tried to work out what was happening.

Sherlock flopped himself casually onto the sofa and rested his feet on the coffee table.

"Graham Lestrade..."

"It's Greg!"

"Sorry," continued Sherlock, "Greg Lestrade, please meet my older brother Mycroft Holmes. I can't quite remember his full job title but I've no doubt you've heard of him. And as much as it would be fun to see him wrongly arrested, he sadly is not your man." Sherlock pointed to the stunned figure on the floor who was looking overwhelmed with confusion. "That's the young gentlemen who tried to take me hostage, albeit with a fairly low rate of success."

There was a stunned silence in the room. The various armed officers avoided each other's eyes, looking at the floor in embarrassment. One lowered his gun. Donovan's eyes grew wide with realisation as her mouth dropped open in horror. Lestrade's stomach filled with dread as he he began to understand what he had done.

"But I thought..." He began, before the room was distracted once more. The boy on the floor had seized the moment when he thought nobody was focused on him to try and escape, and was one frantically kicking away and trying to somehow wriggle his way across the floor. It was a foolish idea as every armed officer in the room lept to restrain him.

Before Lestrade could utter another word, Mycroft shook himself free from the inspector's grip, straightened his suit jacket and marched out of the flat without a backward glance. Lestrade watched him leave, feeling helpless and utterly despairing as he disappeared. He was never going to get away with this.

* * *

The next week was a misery for Lestrade as he waited with dread to face the consequences of his actions. Everybody at the yard thought it was hilarious and he received so many cheers and pats on the back for his now notorious actions that he got sick of it. Nobody seemed to see how serious the situation was. He had physically attacked just about the most senior government official he was aware of. He had used unnecessary force, kicking a restrained man, which was strictly against police guidelines. He had embarrassed Mycroft Holmes in front of his own brother and an entire armed squad of officers. He knew that if Mycroft Holmes decided to seek revenge for his humiliating experience, Lestrade's career was over.

Lestrade had never met Mycroft, but had been contacted by him once previously when he had been ordered to assist Sherlock at Baskerville. All he knew about him that he was a formidle character and senior to anyone that might be considered in charge. The Comissioner of police was nothing compared to Mycroft Holmes; he had utmost control over everyone and everything.

Lestrade cringed with horror as he replayed the incident over and over in his brain. Why had he stormed in like a unhinged lunatic and reacted so aggressively? And damn Sherlock, for standing by and laughing as he had unwittingly signed the death warrant on his own career.

For the next week, Lestrade entered work every day with his body as tightly wound-up with stress as a coiled spring. It was the anticipation he could not bear, waiting daily for the inevitable to attend a meeting to discuss a very serious complaint about his conduct. Maybe this was part of Mycroft's sadistic plan, to string out the mental torture for as long as possible so he could enjoy maximum revenge. Every time Lestrade saw one of his superiors approaching him he would start to brace himself for the fallout. But it did not come.

Thirteen miserable days passed, and still Lestrade heard nothing. He even began to gloomily consider what career he could consider once he was forced out of the police.

On the fourteenth morning since the incident at Sherlock's flat, Lestrade was sitting in his office, absorbed in a complicated report he was trying to write. He did not even look up when someone tapped on his office door before entering a second later, without waiting for a reply.

"Oh my God Sir, you will never believe this."

It was Donovan, slightly breathless, her checks flushed with excitement and her eyes sparkling with glee.

"What?" Asked Lestrade without enthusiasm.

"We just got a phone call from the ladies on the desk downstairs. Who do you think has just entered the building? Only Mycroft Holmes!"

Lestrade stared stupidly at her as the weight of her words came crashing down.

"What?" He spluttered in panic.

"Yeah, Mycroft Holmes," she repeated, looking over her shoulder to see if there was any sight on the esteemed visitor. "And guess what? He's on his way up here now to see you."


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome to chapter 2 of my Mystrade slash, and huge thanks to those who have taken the trouble to leave a review. It honestly means the world to know that someone liked my writing enough to make the effort to leave a few words. Thank you very much, and please keep them coming as your opinions are what makes this writing process worthwhile!

Here's hoping you enjoy chapter 2 :)

* * *

"Oh my God."

It was worse than Lestrade could have ever imagined. The worse nightmare possible. So now, not only was he going to get the sack, but Mycroft Holmes was going to do it in person. He would probably have him marched out of the building in front of everybody, for added humiliation.

There was only one desperate plan of action Lestrade could think of; grovel pitifully and hope that Mycroft took mercy on him.

He looked around his office in panic. Lestrade was not the most organised man, but today the office looked at its worse. Clutter and papers and dirty coffee cups were strewn everywhere. In a panic now, Lestrade began to frantically tidy up, gathering up piles of paper and stuffing them roughly into drawers, piling up loose folders and hiding them under the desk. He scooped up five dirty cups, looking around desperately for somewhere to hide them, before resorting to shoving them on the highest bookshelf out of sight. Donovan, who had been watching the spectacle with a bemused smirk, dissolved into fits of laughter.

"It's not bloody funny, Donovan!" Lestrade shouted, "Why don't you help rather than being a pain in the arse?"

I'm sorry, sir," she replied, still laughing helplessly, "it's just..."

She stopped abruptly as they both heard decisive footsteps making their way down the office. She turned to look before returning to meet Lestrade's questioning stare with a scared nod.

"He's here," she said, all sense of the situation being funny suddenly gone.

Donovan disappeared quickly as Lestrade grabbed his suit jacket from where it was hanging over the back of his chair. He put it on, slightly breathlessly, and was just doing the button up when a tall, elegant figure entered his office.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said in a cool, crisp voice.

It was more of a statement than a question, but Lestrade still nodded dumbly in reply. This was the first time he had actually seen Mycroft Holmes face to face, and as he took in the imposing presence of the man, he felt a strange mixture of fear and fascination.

With his expressionless face and steely gaze, it was hard to believe he and Sherlock were brothers, but Lestrade could clearly see the spark of deep intelligence alive within his eyes. He was holding a long, thin black umbrella which he now leant against the doorframe so both hands were free for him to remove his slim black leather gloves. Lestrade's eyes were transfixed as Mycroft's slender fingers delicately pulled at the fingertips of the gloves, sliding them gracefully off his pale hands. It took Lestrade a moment to stop staring and react when he realised that the right hand was actually being extended towards him.

"Mycroft Holmes," the visitor said, introducing himself without a hint of a smile.

Lestrade nervously accepted the hand in his own and was surprised to find how warm it was. He had been expecting it to be ice cold to match the aura of Mycroft.

"Would you like a seat?" Lestrade asked, his voice sounding oddly strangled.

"Thank you," replied Mycroft, lowering himself into one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. "I hope this is a convenient time. I'm afraid my schedule does not really allow for making appointments."

"Oh no, now is absolutely fine, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, sitting awkwardly in his own seat.

Mycroft seemed to fill the entire room, such was the magnitude of his presence. Lestrade was struck by how elegantly attired he was. Mycroft wore a three piece suit in the deepest possible shade of navy blue, a pristine white shirt that looked brand new beneath. The suit must surely have been made to order as it fitted Mycroft to perfection, tapering in at his narrow waist, skimming over his hips to reach the perfect length. His tie was plain pale blue, adding just the slightest splash of carefully co-ordinated colour to the ensemble.

Lestrade was suddenly awkwardly aware that he must look remarkably scruffy in comparison. His own black suit was at least three years old, one of the cuffs frayed and the trousers beginning to go slightly shiny after withstanding multiple washes. His own white shirt was also old, now dulled with a slight tinge of grey. He had not bothered to wear a tie that day, a decision he was now deeply regretting. He made a mental note that night to bring a selection of ties to work and keep them in his office for occasions like this. But what was the point in that? Chances are he would not have a job before the hour was out.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and placed his hands together, surveying the inspector with interest.

"I've heard a lot about you from my brother, inspector," he said, "seems you and Sherlock have come into contact quite regularly over the past few years."

"Yes we have," replied Lestrade, "he's certainly been a godsend to me on a number of cases."

Mycroft smiled very slightly. "Well, I was hoping we would therefore have an opportunity to converse at some point, but that opportunity has yet to present itself."

"No, it hasn't," said Lestrade, the memories of his last encounter with Mycroft making his stomach clench with embarrassment. He could not stand the anticipation any longer; he had to act before it was too late to save himself.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said suddenly, "I really have to apologise to you most sincerely."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Why?" He asked, "I've only been here a few minutes, what have you done?"

"For what happened the other week at Sherlock's flat," Lestrade continued desperately, "I am so sorry, Sir, for attacking you like that. I honestly believed you were threatening Sherlock. I'd never have dreamed of anything like it if I'd known it was you. I really am so very sorry."

Lestrade finished, looking pleadingly at Mycroft, and was surprised to see the man looking faintly amused.

"Oh dear, inspector," Mycroft said slyly, "do I detect that this has been causing you some worry for a little while?"

He is certainly as sharp and perceptive as Sherlock, thought Lestrade, no doubt there that they share the same genes. He nodded at Mycroft meekly.

"Well I'm sure you'll be delighted to know in that case, inspector, that I was not in the least bit offended or angry by what happened," he said casually.

Lestrade looked astonished. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him.

"I won't pretend that I appreciated the bruise on the back of my leg," Mycroft said crisply, causing Lestrade to wince with shame, "but I was actually very impressed with your actions. You tackled a potentially dangerous situation with determination and you put yourself at risk for the sake of my brother. Any officer could stand around and hesitate and wait until it's too late, but it was impressive to see someone who trusted their gut instinct and was not afraid to act. And for that, I thank you for being there and putting Sherlock's safety as your priority."

Lestrade could not believe his ears; he had to remind himself to breathe. Could it be possible, that not only was he going to get away with his terrible actions, but he was actually being praised for them? Was it remotely feasible that this situation was going to end significantly better than expected? Although he felt completely clueless as to how to react, Lestrade felt he should make some effort at responding.

"It was nothing really," he said weakly, "I just did what seemed like a good idea at the time. Although on reflection, I decided it wasn't such a good idea."

Mycroft shrugged.

"It could have worked out very differently, but personally I was impressed with your actions based on the actual outcome. So thank you."

"Well, thank you then, sir," said Lestrade, the strangling tension that had suffocated him for days finally dissipating as the warmth of relief flooded his body. He was not going to be sacked; he was still going to work in the police. And Mycroft Holmes himself was praising his conduct. Lestrade re-focused on Mycroft with newly appraising eyes, feeling now a heightened sense of respect towards the man.

"This brings us around to the reason I came to see you, inspector," Mycroft continued, "after seeing you in action, I decided you were just the man we needed for some assistance with an operation. Would you be willing to co-operate?"

Lestrade nodded with excessive vigour, causing Mycroft to smile indulgently. At this moment in time, he was willing to do anything he was told, such was his relief at retaining his position.

"I'm assisting the government with some proposals," Mycroft explained, "to increase London's ability to respond to terrorist threats and major incidents. At present it is felt that the various emergency services are not co-ordinated enough. We are working on some fairly ambitious plans to hold full-scale emergency response practice drills, in the city centre, to involve the police, ambulance service, and all the other various personnel that would be necessary to consider."

Lestrade listened intently, drinking in every word.

"I'm identifying different people across the services that could be of assistance in giving us information with regard to what we need to do to organise such an event. I'm looking for an experienced police officer who can work with me on behalf of the police service, and when Sherlock mentioned your name, I thought you might be ideal. How does that sound?"

Lestrade hesitated with surprise at such an unexpected offer.

"Well, yes sir, of course I'd be happy to help," he replied, but Mycroft had instantly detected his confusion.

"Let me guess," Mycroft said perceptively, "you're hesitating because you cannot understand why I'm asking you, when surely representatives from the Ministry of a Defence or a terrorism specialist seems like a more obvious choice."

Lestrade nodded. Mycroft was so remarkably quick-witted it as impossible to conceal anything from him.

"I'll certainly be seeking advice from all those people as well," Mycroft said, " but in my experience it is also extremely helpful to get the perspective of someone who is actually on the streets, doing the job and working in the city on a daily basis. Their insight can be very different to those who simply co-ordinate from above. So that is what I'm hoping you will agree to."

Lestrade nodded, feeling honoured.

"If you honestly believe I can be of any help, I'd love to be involved."

"Excellent," Mycroft said with satisfaction, and without warning stood up. "Now we have that arranged, I'm afraid I really must go, I have another few meetings to get to as quickly as possible. I'll arrange for my assistant to get in touch and arrange a convenient time for a proper meeting."

Lestrade stood opposite Mycroft, their eyes meeting as they shook hands once again.

"It was a pleasure, inspector," Mycroft said softly, before turning on his heel and leaving the office.

Lestrade watched him go, feeling slightly awestruck by everything that had just happened. He was still standing, looking dazed and lost in thought when Donovan poked her head around the doorframe.

"Wow, you need to tell me everything!" She said excitedly, "I bet you're relieved he is gone."

"Yeah, of course I am," said Lestrade in a forced tone of cheer, as he knew deep down that his reply was untrue. He could not explain why, but he had actually felt disappointed when Mycroft had left.

* * *

When Mycroft returned to his office, the file he has asked Anthea to compile was waiting on his desk. Eagerly, he sat in his tall, upright leather chair and began to leaf quickly through the pages.

A complete portfolio of everything that could be found on Gregory Lestrade. Anthea had done well, as Mycroft knew she would. They had access to databases and records that would shock most people in terms of what they contained. With a simple command, Mycroft could find out virtually anything about anybody he chose.

Like a greedy child he devoured every page of the report, scanning the words with his quick eyes for nuggets of tantalising information. An excellent service record, good qualifications, strong references, some interesting comments on his character recorded by a Scotland Yard superior. Finally Mycroft spotted the information he was really seeking; highly confidential notes about Lestrade's personal life.

Divorced, living alone.

Mycroft smiled to himself as he turned the page and found a copy of Lestrade's identification card staring back at him, complete with his photograph. Mycroft ran his eyes hungrily over the black and white image, noting the dark eyes, the distinguished greying hair at the temples, the slight crinkles in his skin which were visible due to his smile.

Mycroft never allowed his personal feelings to show to anyone, but right now, in the privacy of his office, he felt the deepest stirrings of desire as he absorbed the likeness of the man in front of him. Lestrade was just the sort of man he found attractive; masculine and strong but still handsome and striking. The moment he had laid eyes on Lestrade, he had felt the pang on attraction with such an overpowering force, that even he with his facade of icy cool had struggled to repress the burning heat of passion that was threatening to engulf his body. It was that which had driven him to invent this nonsensical story about needing Lestrade's assistance with government work. Mycroft was surprised that Lestrade had believed him so easily, but he also knew that he was an excellent liar and was adept at making any story sound believable if the situation required it. And at this present moment, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to spend some time in Lestrade's presence, not with a mind to acting on his feelings, of course. Mycroft shuddered at the thought; a man in his position could never risk leaving himself vulnerable by becoming personally involved with other people. So he would just have to content himself with a few hours of being in close proximity to Lestrade, allowing the personal but ultimately chaste contact to soothe his desires, albeit only slightly. He could never allow himself anything more intimate than that.

A soft tap came on the door and Anthea entered the room.

"Did I find everything you were looking for?" She asked when she saw Mycroft was looking through the folder she had compiled.

"Perfect, thank you," Mycroft said, "I was hoping you could telephone the inspector at some point and arrange a time when it would be convenient for him to come here for a meeting."

"Of course," said Anthea, taking her phone out of her pocket in order to enter the instruction on her electronic diary. "When would you like to see him?"

Mycroft looked once again at Lestrade's photograph, discreetly stroking his finger down the image, imagining the warmth of skin beneath his touch.

"As soon as possible."


	3. Chapter 3

_Welcome to chapter 3 of my Mystrade fic. I was always keen in this story to have a chapter which shifted from one characters perspective to the others, and hopefully that's what I've done here. The heat is beginning to rise between our two Sherlock heroes, who knows where it will lead? ;)_

_As always, all comments and reviews are so gratefully received, I genuinely cannot explain how much I enjoy getting them. I literally jump with excitement when I get an email notification telling me I have a comment! So please, please, take a moment to tell me what you think._

_I really hope you enjoy chapter 3_

* * *

Lestrade glanced at the building, looking for some outward sign that he had come to the correct place. He had followed Anthea's detailed instructions to the letter, so in theory, this was indeed Mycroft Holmes's office. He had been surprised to receive an invitation for a formal meeting so soon, a mere two days since he had encountered Mycroft at Scotland Yard. Under his arm, Lestrade carried a folder with a collection of documents he thought might be potentially useful for the meeting he was about to enter. Mycroft had given him no instructions, or asked him to prepare anything in advance, but Lestrade was keen to show that he had at least made some attempts at arriving prepared. Making a good impression and being at the receiving end of Mycroft's approval was something he knew was extremely important if this budding professional relationship was to continue. In honour of the occasion, he had carefully gone through his wardrobe and assembled his smartest outfit, complete with a brand new white shirt that he had bought after work the day before.

As he climbed the steps to the door, Lestrade felt a buzz of excitement amongst the nervous emotions pulsating through his body. He still could not quite rationalise his feelings, but all he knew was that he had been looking forward to seeing Mycroft again. The man was a curious mix of intimidating authority and fascinating attraction. There was a depth and complexity to him that Lestrade had never encountered. There seemed to be so much more to learn about him, although Lestrade suspected he would be lucky to discover any more from such a controlled and cool person.

* * *

Mycroft had stopped working a full thirty minutes before Lestrade was due for his appointment. He had been looking forward to this meeting immensely and wanted to privately savour both the moment and the anticipation. He had spotted Anthea giving him a curious look when she entered the office and found him staring out of the window, but she had said nothing. Although Mycroft was fond of Anthea and valued her steely professionalism, they also had an unspoken understanding; no questions were ever asked of a personal nature and she did not attempt to try and learn anything about him as a person. Their entire relationship was built around work and neither knew anything about the other in any other capacity.

When Anthea showed Lestrade into the office, Mycroft took a few seconds to gaze upon the secret object of his desire. He was strikingly handsome, and even more so today in his smarter clothes. Mycroft noted the neat file in his hands and the nervous shadow in his eyes, and felt slightly cruel for having lied to him about the fictitious meeting. Lestrade thought he was here for a genuine consultation, when Mycroft in fact simply wanted to bask within the aura of his proximity.

"Good to see you again, inspector," Mycroft said pleasantly, extending his hand to shake Lestrade's, a shiver of pleasure dancing up his spine as their fingers touched.

"And you as well, Mr. Holmes," replied Lestrade politely.

Mycroft gestured to the chair in front of his desk and they both sat down. Mycroft noticed that Lestrade was sitting perched on the edge of his seat, his back rigidly straight and his knees pressed tightly together. An uncomfortable position to sit, thought Mycroft, his nervousness clearly visible in his inability to sit back in a relaxed manner.

Mycroft opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a map which gave a detailed view of Central London. Lestrade leaned forward and studied in with interest, his eyes darting keenly over the various points of the paper. Mycroft watched his with pleasure, feeling oddly pleased that Lestrade seemed genuinely interested in his fictitious little task.

"So why don't I outline the plans we have in place, and then I'd like to like to hear from your perspective how the police might be able to undertake what we have in mind?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade nodded enthusiastically; Mycroft glowed privately to himself.

Quickly, Mycroft reeled off the information which he had rehearsed in his mind earlier that day. It had not taken him long to invent something plausible, it was more of an amalgamation of various security arrangements he had presented to people in the past and that he knew well. Lestrade listened intently, drinking in every word, his gaze only broken by the occasional glance down at the map as he sought some visual context for Mycroft's suggestions.

"So, how feasible does that sound from your point of view?" Mycroft finished.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment before answering.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he said, his finger hovering over the map as he searched for the point he wanted to start with, "I've got a few suggestions which might simplify a few of the ideas you've got."

Lestrade began to talk, identifying parts of Mycroft's speech which needed addressing, presenting his own ideas intelligently and only criticising in a highly productive way. Mycroft was impressed; it was a shame the whole proposal was a lie to start with. Lestrade was a natural with a good eye for detail and clearly experienced at his job.

As Lestrade continued, Mycroft allowed part of his mind to switch off and begin to think of other things which were at present of greater interest to him. He pondered for the hundredth time that maddeningly vague phrase in Lestrade's file: "divorced, living alone". That could only mean that he had been married to a woman, but was it at all possible that Lestrade's preferences arched beyond that? Mycroft was highly perceptive, and he was sure he had detected just the slightest hint of mutual attraction in Lestrade's manner and behaviour towards him. Not that Mycroft wanted to pursue the point, but it was certainly tantalising to think that his secret, lustful thoughts might be reciprocated. There surely had to be some way of finding out more.

Mycroft had been so busy dreaming that for just a second he had stopped listening to Lestrade. It was unfortunately timed that he had chosen the precise moment to disengage just as Lestrade had finished speaking. It took Mycroft a couple of seconds to realise that he was staring vaguely and unresponsively into Lestrade's eyes and failing totally to acknowledge him verbally. He sat up sharply and straightened the papers in front of him with unnecessary vigour in order to break the tense awkwardness which suddenly existed between them.

"Thank you for that, inspector, I was just thinking over some of the points you made," Mycroft said briskly, returning his glance to Lestrade's face, only to notice that his cheeks had reddened significantly. Lestrade was not stupid; he had clearly noticed Mycroft's intense look and was now reacting with embarrassment. Mycroft was struck by this level of responsiveness and felt encouraged. His belief that the spark of attraction was also alive in Lestrade was now firmer than before. The time had come to test the waters even further.

"You really have been so helpful, inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said smoothly, "I don't suppose you would be able to attend a second meeting to discuss some further proposals at some point?"

The eagerness in Lestrade's agreement was enough to convince Mycroft that his gut instinct was indeed correct.

* * *

Lestrade attended his next meeting with excitement and anticipation, his nerves more of a pleasurable buzz of electric tension rather than fear. The only emotion bothering him now was a slightly uneasy sense of confusion which he was trying to ignore.

He kept asking himself questions, deep in his mind: why was he reacting in this uncharacteristically excitable way towards the attentions of Mycroft Holmes? Why was he so keen to see him and why did he feel electricity pulsing through his veins whenever he thought of him? Why was it so important to impress him and gain his approval?

Lestrade told himself that he was simply being sensible and obtaining the respect of one of his superiors, but he had never been any good at lying to himself. He knew really that for some ridiculous and completely crazy reason, he was experiencing some sort of attraction towards Mycroft. He felt such an idiot when he pondered over this most strange of thoughts. A man of his age should not be experiencing crushes and hankering pathetically after a completely unobtainable person, like some sort of lovesick teenager. But then Lestrade had certainly felt extremely lonely since his wife had left and their divorce had been finalised. Maybe it was the bitterness he felt towards her that had awoken his dormant attraction to men, a feeling he had not experienced for many years. There had been a couple of men in his youth who he had experimented with sexually, but nothing of any great significance. He had assumed this was an aspect of the past for many men his age and he had taken it for granted that he had simply grown out of those youthful feelings. But there was no denying that however deep those old attractions had been lying, Mycroft Holmes had managed to awaken them and they now pulsed furiously and with a power he had never experienced before. Lestrade could not get Mycroft out of his head; the man had become an all-consuming obsession.

As he entered Mycroft's office for a second time, his heart began to beat faster and his breathing quickened as soon as he laid eyes on him. He savoured the few seconds when their skin touched, even in something as asexual and empty as a polite handshake, but he knew this was the closest he would ever get to laying his hands on Mycroft's flesh. The mere thought of such a thing made his face burn hot with the thrill. Better pull yourself together, Lestrade thought to himself, this is not the place to be thinking ideas of that nature.

As they talked, Lestrade tried to take in every detail he could about Mycroft, stealing little glances and looks at his person whenever a gap in the conversation allowed. This was not easy for Lestrade; he was an intelligent man, but any ability he had was utterly dwarfed by the sharpness of Mycroft. His eye for detail and analytical mind was quite astonishing and he did not miss the slightest point as they discussed different issues. It took all of Lestrade's concentration and focus to maintain his contribution to the conversation. Working with Mycroft Holmes certainly did not allow a lot of time for idle daydreaming.

"Have you never considered more specialised work in something like counter terrorism or security services?" Mycroft asked, "You seem to have a good eye for this type of operation."

Lestrade blushed slightly with pleasure, thrilled to be in receipt of a compliment.

"No, Mr. Holmes, I've always been very happy where I am. Keeping the criminals of the streets in good enough for me."

He gave a slightly awkward laugh, although he had not really meant it as a joke. Straying away from a strictly work related topic of conversation was suddenly quite difficult.

Mycroft picked up a pen from his desk and twirled it absentmindedly between his slender pale fingers.

"I'm the opposite," he said, "planning and strategising are the ways I like to try and protect the country."

"But that makes sense," said Lestrade keenly, "as you're so good at it. I've never seen someone work this stuff out as meticulously as you."

Lestrade was suddenly acutely aware of how odd that sentence must have sounded like a feeble attempt at appraising Mycroft's efforts. If Mycroft was surprised by his words, he did not show it. He leaned back in his chair, continuing to play with his pen.

"So tell me, inspector," Mycroft said softly, "what exactly made you join the police?"

Lestrade gave a short laugh. "That's quite a long story!" He exclaimed.

"Well I'd very much like to hear it," Mycroft continued, his unblinking eyes never breaking contact with Lestrade's.

Lestrade hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to begin, but then started to describe his career choice and the extensive influence his parents had had on the decision. As he explained, Mycroft listened silently, occasionally nodding or smiling at appropriate points, but never interrupting. Before long, the conversation was flowing much more easily, Mycroft interested in many details of Lestrade's work, his education and his upbringing. Although Lestrade was enjoying the sudden informality, it did not escape his attention that he was the one doing all the answering, whereas Mycroft was leading the questioning. His aloof manner and illusive persona was tantalising; Lestrade still felt as if he knew absolutely nothing about him.

They continued to talk long after Anthea had gone, and would have probably continued if Mycroft had not casually glanced at the small silver clock on his desk. 7.02pm.

"My goodness, inspector," he exclaimed, getting up hastily, for he had genuinely lost all sense of time, "I had no idea it was so late. I did not intend for you to be here so long."

Lestrade stood up, disappointed that their time together was at an end.

"Not at all Mr. Holmes," he said politely, "it's not late in the slightest and it's been so interesting being able to work with you again."

"I'm glad you've found it a productive meeting," Mycroft said smiling, "we'll have to schedule another."

Lestrade frowned, looking slightly confused.

"You think we'll need a third meeting to go through this?" He enquired.

Mycroft was silent in response. It looked as if his little charade was running out of steam, there were only so many times you could arrange pretend meetings for no reason. Mycroft hesitated, knowing that he really should not say the words that were about to leave his mouth, but he could not resist the temptation.

"You're absolutely right, inspector," he said decisively, "how about to thank you for your time, and to apologise for making you work so late, we have a drink together before you go home."

Lestrade froze, wondering if he had just dreamt what he had just heard. Go for a drink with Mycroft? He could not think of anything more desirable and yet also, utterly terrifying.

"You mean a quick drink in the pub?" He asked, cringing as he said the words but unable to make a more intelligent comment.

Mycroft gave an amused grimace.

"I do not tend to visit the pub," he said with a tone of mild distaste, "but I am a member of a private bar which is slightly more in keeping with what I mean by a civilised drink."

Lestrade felt like an idiot. The mere thought of Mycroft in a pub was too ridiculous to contemplate.

"Well, if you're sure it's not trouble, I'd love to," Lestrade said, his stomach tightening into a coil of excitement.

Mycroft smiled at him darkly, a strange distant look in his eyes, picking up his coat an umbrella from the stand by his desk.

"Then we must not waste any time. Let's go."


End file.
